Shorts and Drabbles
by KnightFury
Summary: Shorts and one-shots, mostly written to prompts. Even I have no idea what might happen next.
1. Cocaine

_**I am not sure whether I could call the following a drabble, as it was intended, but it is certainly the shortest story that I have ever written!**_

_**The following story is with thanks to Ballykissangel, who provided me with this prompt: **_**"Holmes does something that makes Watson very upset and Watson moves out and Holmes has to work hard to get Watson to come back to 221b.****"**

_**Word Count: 830 words.**_

* * *

Watson and I, I am inclined to believe, tend to see eye to eye on the whole. There is, however, one thing that I fear we shall never agree upon.

"You are going to become reliant on that dreadful substance Holmes," my companion shouted at me as I prepared a seven percent solution of cocaine. "I do wish that you would desist before it takes control of you."

Scoffing at his words and paying him no further heed proved to be unwise, but how was I to know? When the effect of the drug cleared, I found myself alone with only a terse note as company. At first I told myself that he had simply written that message to make his point and taken himself off to his bed, but I discovered my error upon investigating his room. All that he could carry had been removed and I was deserted.

I admit that I knew a moment of panic. Watson has no family and therefore nowhere to go. Furthermore, London is a dangerous place and he was out there alone. Where could he have gone? My first thought was to summon Mrs. Hudson, but she only knew as much as I; Watson had left and it was entirely my fault. I took up my coat and hat and took to the wet streets, cursing my selfish attitude until my guilt and self-loathing became a mantra within my brain.

There was not a trace of my companion to be had, for the rain had been pouring since lunch time and I had left it far too long before pursuing my companion.

Eventually, I found myself standing upon Lestrade's front doorstep and ringing his bell. I hoped only that he would be prepared to aid the search for my Boswell.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," I heard the familiar voice of the inspector grumble as he came to the door. He stared at me for a long moment and then allowed me to enter his home.

"I was going to send for you first thing in the morning," he snapped, his voice as weary as it was disgruntled. "But then again, you tend not to worry about the time and three AM is technically morning."

I apologised as I removed my coat. I had not been conscious of the passage of time.

He shook his head and lead me through to his parlour to pour me some brandy and relight the fire. "Sit down and warm up," he practically ordered. "I don't know how you traced the doctor here, but know this; whatever the two of you have quarrelled about can wait until Watson has had a good night's sleep. I think that you should go home and get some rest yourself. You look done!"

I froze and stared at him in disbelief. Watson was there all the time! But of course he was; he and Lestrade became quite close during my hiatus and for him to turn to the inspector under such circumstances would make perfect sense.

The door opened and the unsteady steps of my Boswell entered the room behind me as I crouched at the fireside. "Holmes, this really is too much," he protested. "Must you invade Lestrade's house at this hour just to speak with me?"

The inspector grumbled when I again offered my apologies and then left us to talk privately. I perceived at a glance that Watson, despite having gone to bed, had clearly not slept.

Of course I apologised profusely to my dear friend for having upset him so, but it was not enough.

"An apology is supposed to indicate that the offence shall not be repeated," he said with a shake of his head. "We both know that you have no intention of stopping."

His words cut me to the quick. I had been frightfully worried about the fellow, had searched all night for him, only to find that he would not even accept my apology. Yet I knew him to be correct; I had not even thought to apologise for my actions, for my apology was worded as if I was only sorry that he objected to them. I could see that I would have to change my attitude if I wished for my companion to stay at Baker Street.

I eventually convinced Watson to accompany me back to our rooms. Once there, I took up the cause of our dispute and threw it upon the fire. I had to prove to him that I truly did intend to change my ways.

There was so much that I desperately wished to tell him, but I was unable. Instead I simply poured us each a drink and took to my chair opposite his beside our hearth.

I hope that tonight's actions have told him what I am unable to articulate; that I value his companionship above all else and will do anything to avoid losing my dearest friend.


	2. Sleep Loss

_**This short story is set in the BBC's **_**Sherlock**_** universe.**_

_**The following story is with thanks to Ballykissangel, who provided me with this prompt: ****"**_**One day Holmes irritates Watson so badly Watson finally lets him have it and punches him in the nose."**

_**Word Count: 447 words.**_

* * *

John could usually put up with Sherlock pretty easily. Well, at least he rarely got the urge to shout or rant at the taller man and he was usually able to walk away until he calmed down or his friend came to realise that he was in the wrong and apologised.

Today, he needed to walk away. He really had to go round Sarah's for a few hours.

Sherlock had started the day by waking him at four AM without a word of apology (after all, the Great Detective can go days without sleep; why does John think he needs it?). The case that prompted the rude awakening had moved incredibly quickly and ended abruptly; leaving Sherlock in a bad mood.

John was not in the best of moods himself. He was tired, extremely so, but was unable to sleep because his selfish friend and flat mate was busily scraping away at his violin as if determined to murder melody after melody.

"Just shut up!" John exploded at last as he dragged himself down to the sitting room.

The taller man turned his head to the irate doctor with a frown. "I thought that you had gone to bed," he remarked as he again dragged his bow across the violin's strings.

"How am I supposed to do that with this racket?" he snapped. "Find something quiet to do, if you can't sleep."

He tossed his violin onto the coffee table before throwing himself onto the leather sofa. "Sleep is boring John. All it does is waste time."

"I'm tired Sherlock," he told him in a quiet, reasonable tone. "I need some sleep."

"Then sleep," the Great Detective growled, sitting up. "It's not as if you have anything interesting to do."

He didn't mean to do it. He was simply too tired to be able to stop himself. Before he even fully realised what he was doing he had approached the sofa and punched his flat mate on the nose.

Sherlock said nothing. He simply cupped his hand to his nose to catch the blood and stepped inside the bathroom.

"God Sherlock," John gasped as he came to his senses. "I'm sorry. Let me take a look."

"No; I'm fine," his friend's muffled voice responded through the closed door.

Despite the protests, John did tend to the injury that he had inflicted. He also made his flat mate a cup of tea.

Sherlock, for his part, played a quiet and soothing piece of music and then put the violin away. What he did when John returned to his bed was unclear, but he was as quiet as a mouse until the doctor got up of his own accord.


	3. Gone Swimming

_**The following story is with thanks to Ballykissangel, who provided me with this prompt: "**_**John can't swim but Sherlock doesn't know it.**_**"**_

_**Word Count: 509 words.**_

* * *

I watched in horror as Holmes threw aside his hat, coat, gloves and cane before diving into the Thames after our retreating criminal and his sack full of silver.

"The goods will weigh him down, Watson! Quickly! Your assistance!" he barked at me as he took to the water.

I shivered and paced the bank fearfully, feeling perfectly helpless. My old war wounds have left me quite unable to swim in such tepid water. Indeed, it is rather difficult for me to swim even in warmer waters.

"Watson!" my companion called to me desperately.

I considered taking to the water to assist him, but knew that doing so would only provide him with more to concern himself with. "I am sorry Holmes," I called back. Of course I was sorry; sorry to be so utterly useless to him at a time like this and sorry to have not thought to inform him that I was unable to swim.

I stopped my anxious pacing and turned my attention to the surface of the river. Both the thief and Holmes had vanished from view. I stood there trembling. What could I do?

After what felt like an age, I saw my companion's head break the surface of the water. He coughed loudly and started back for the bank upon which I stood, dragging the still form of the man that we had pursued across London with him.

"The silver is at the bottom of the damned river!" Holmes informed me angrily as I assisted him in removing the criminal from the water. I could see that he was shaking violently and wondered whether it was with cold or rage.

I offered my companion my hand and repeated my apology.

He glared at me resentfully and attempted to escape the Thames without my assistance. "Why did you not help me when I asked?" he demanded.

I shook my head and crouched before him, ignoring the protests of my injured leg as I did so. "I cannot swim," I confessed quietly.

His expression immediately became one of disbelief. "Not at all?"

I averted my gaze and shook my head.

"Then you must learn!" my companion remarked as he at last grasped my hand.

I almost released my grip at his words in fear that he was about to pull me in. "I did learn; I simply am no longer able to do so."

Comprehension dawned and he nodded as I assisted him in dragging himself onto the bank. "Your wounds."

"Quite so," I confirmed as I draped his coat about his quaking shoulders.

He lightly touched my shoulder before turning his attention to our criminal.

I am glad to report that Holmes had managed to haul the thief to the surface of the river before he drowned and that Scotland Yard were able to retrieve the stolen silverware.

Never again have I neglected to inform Holmes of one of my inabilities and, for his part, my companion does try to avoid taking my assistance for granted. Every man has his limitations, after all.


	4. Cake

_**The following story is with thanks to Ballykissangel, who provided me with this prompt: "**_**Mrs Hudson teaches the boys how to bake a cake.**_**"**_

_**Word Count: 682 words.**_

* * *

"Do you know Watson, I believe that Mrs. Hudson has quite surpassed herself," my companion remarked as he brushed cake crumbs from his clothes.

It is an unusual occurance for Holmes to compliment our housekeeper in such a manner. I looked up with interest. "Has she?"

"Yes indeed. I have never had such a dry, tasteless cake! See for yourself."

I was about to respond when the sitting room door opened.

"Mr. Holmes," our housekeeper entered and stood before us with her hands on her hips. "If you wish to make a complaint-"

"Indeed I do," he interrupted. "This cake is as dry as a bone and quite lacking in flavour. I believe that even I could do better."

I laughed at this ridiculous last remark, for Holmes' cooking leaves a great deal to be desired.

Mrs. Hudson turned her icy glare upon me. "You think so, do you? Very well gentlemen, we shall see what you are capable of. Down to my kitchen with you."

We each exchanged an expression of disbelief. Surely she was not serious!

She was serious. She chased the servants from the kitchen and gave orders that she was not to be disturbed before handing my companion an apron apiece.

"Have either of you baked a cake before?" she enquired with a glare.

I shook my head and turned to Holmes, who was busy turning his apron over in his hands with distaste.

"Then we shall bake something simple. We shall need eggs, flour and sugar first of all."

Needless to say, we made rather a mess. Holmes is no better at cracking eggs than he is at boiling them and he was not interested in using the scales to measure the ingredients.

"There is no need for scales," he announced airily with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Years of practice with my chemistry set has left me perfectly capable of measuring these ingredients with my eyes."

I refrained from reminding him that he has on occasion misjudged the quantities of some of his chemicals, often resulting in explosions.

When we were finished, the kitchen looked like a war zone. There was egg on the floor and flour everywhere (even in Holmes' hair, though I am not quite sure how he achieved that).

"Well," my companion said as he tossed aside his apron, "I believe we have completed our task Mrs. Hudson. If you would excuse us..."

Our housekeeper barred our retreat as Holmes made his way towards it. "Oh no you don't! You have made a terrible mess, which you can now put to rights, and you have a cake to keep from burning."

I started to sweep up the flour without a word of objection, feeling that the mess was probably my fault as I had allowed my companion to take charge. "Could you wipe up the egg that you dropped, Holmes?"

He frowned at me and hopped up onto the counter beside the sink, as it was the only surface not covered with flour. "Certainly not!"

"Then keep an eye on that cake. Please."

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson had returned from the larder with cream and jam. "Get down from there at once! You are not to sit upon surfaces that are meant for preparing food."

Holmes jumped down and was presented with a dustpan.

"Help the doctor with the sweeping, if you please. I shall pick up the egg that you smashed on my nice, clean floor."

Holmes crouched before me and held the pan steady while I swept the flour into it.

After much complaining and sneezing from my companion, the flour had all been disposed of and the kitchen was clean again.

"Thank you gentlemen," our housekeeper acknowledged as we washed our hands. "The cake should be ready now."

The cake was a horrible mess! It was too wet due to the lack of accurate measurements and there were pieces of eggshell in it. Holmes' argument was that it was rather good for a first attempt, but he was always careful not to insult Mrs. Hudson's culinary efforts after that.


	5. What Ails You?

_**The following is a **_**Sherlock **_**story and was written with thanks to Ballykissangel, who provided me with this prompt: "**_**Johns sister Harry dies.**_**"**_

_**Word Count: 403 words.**_

Sherlock entered the sitting room of the flat that he shared with his friend/colleague/blogger, removing his scarf as he closed the door. The room was quiet and still and for a moment he believed himself to be alone.

A quiet sniff caught his attention from the fireside. He approached it quickly. "John? Are you ill?"

Another sniff answered him, followed by the hoarse and rasping voice of his friend. "I'm fine."

He snorted and crouched beside the shorter man, scrutinising him carefully.

"I'm fine Sherlock," John Watson repeated with another sniff as he rubbed at his eyes.

He shook his head and rested a tentative hand on his shoulder. "You're ill. Your nose and eyes are streaming, your throat is obviously sore and you clearly have chills because you are shivering despite the warmth of the fire."

The doctor coughed into his hand and shook his head with another sniff. "I'm just... I..." he looked away and swallowed awkwardly. "I've had some bad news, that's all."

"You're in shock," Sherlock realised. He looked about him for something warm that did not smell of caustic chemicals and that was not wet from the rain. Seeing nothing that he would wish to offer to his friend, he tossed aside his wet coat and then pulled him into an awkward embrace.

John rested his head against the detective's chest with a muffled sob.

"What happened John?" the consulting detective asked quietly.

He sniffed and shook his head. "My sister died. All alone. Two days ago. Her..." he swallowed again and slammed his eyes tightly shut, causing tears to overflow and make their escape down his face. "Her body was discovered this morning."

"Alcohol poisoning?"

The doctor nodded and raised a hand to his mouth as he choked on another sob.

Sherlock pulled him closer in a protective, if not quite comforting, manner. "I'm sorry John," he said after a long silence that was broken only by the sound of his friend's suppressed sobs and gasps. He didn't know what else to say. "Is there anything that I can do?"

The doctor shook his head and sniffed. "Nothing more than you already are. This helps. This is good."

He relaxed and held his blogger close until the tears exhausted him and he fell to sleep. Even then, having made him comfortable on the settee, he kept his watch over him. John would not weather his grief alone.


	6. Poisoned

_**This story is rather long to be called a "short", but as it is in response to a prompt I submit it here in any case. The following is with thanks to my friend's "mad sister" (the friend's description, not mine), who gave me the prompt: "**_**death by soap**_**". It certainly had me thinking...**_

_**Word count: **__**1,809 words.**_

* * *

I entered our sitting room to find Sherlock Holmes already there. He was curled up in his armchair with a blanket about his shoulders as he stared sightlessly into our unlit hearth.

"Holmes?" I approached him slowly, expecting to find a discarded needle close by.

I received no reaction from my friend, but I did see him give a shiver.

I hastily lit a fire in the hearth before turning my attention to my companion. He was indeed shivering violently, but a sheen of sweat at his brow was visible in the firelight. I touched his forehead to find that it was burning hot.

He hissed and gave a start. "Your hands are freezing!" he gasped at me.

"Holmes!" I gave a sigh of relief and crouched before him. "How are you feeling?"

He groaned and waved a dismissive hand.

"No, talk to me. It is obvious that you are unwell; tell me what is wrong."

He groaned again and clutched at his abdomen. "I believe I have eaten something that I should not have done."

"Are you nauseous?"

He moaned. "Yes... I feel ill. Terribly so!"

"If it is indeed something that you have had to eat, it is best to allow you to rid yourself of it," I informed him apologetically. "But I can at least cool you."

"You do not want to stay with me," he whispered.

I took his hand in mine firmly. "I am a doctor Holmes. I have seen worse, I assure you."

His lips quirked in a small, fleeting smile. "Thank you."

The day was far from pleasant. Holmes could barely swallow the water that I plied him with by the time mid morning came and he soon became weak from vomiting. I did my utmost to comfort him, but there was little that I could do.

When evening arrived, my companion seemed to be on the road to recovery. I encouraged him to have a few bites of some dry toast and to drink some more water.

My companion was much like his usual self the following morning. He chaffed at my directives to continue to eat plain foods and to drink only water, but heeded my advice when I reminded him that his digestion had been terribly upset.

It was at lunch time that I saw signs of relapse. My friend was suddenly dreadfully pale, even by his standards, and trembling.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

He waved my concern aside and staggered into the bathroom. The vomiting began again.

"I obviously should not have tried to eat," my companion mumbled as I made him comfortable upon our sofa.

"If that were the case, you would have been sick during the night," I replied as I cooled his brow. I could not understand it, but I said nothing. I did not wish to alarm my ill friend.

"What is wrong with me?" his eyes widened and he stared at me in sudden horror. "Leave me!"

I reached for the bucket that I had ensured was close at hand. Holmes does not like to be seen vomiting and so I believed that he was about to be sick again.

He shook his head weakly. "If I do not have food poisoning you might contract this hateful illness from me."

I set aside the bucket and took his hand in mine. "I shan't abandon you."

I again received a wan, fleeting smile.

So this continued as the days went by. My companion would begin to recover, only to suddenly relapse with little or no warning. I found myself at my wits' end. Nothing that I attempted seemed to work and poor Holmes was growing weaker and his symptoms more severe.

I did not fall ill, though watching my friend suffer so upset me terribly. I knew not what to do.

"Read to me?" Holmes requested one evening, as I attempted to make him comfortable. "I need a distraction."

I looked at our many books. "What should I read?"

"Anything. I care not."

I patted his hand and went to our bookcase. As I tried to decide on reading material my gaze fell upon one of my friend's books.

"Holmes... Could you have been poisoned?"

"How?" he asked tiredly. "The poisoner would have had to somehow keep administering the poison to me."

How indeed. I had taken away his tobacco when he had first become unwell and he was barely eating. How indeed could a poison have been administered to him but not to me?

I returned to his side. "We shall use your methods Holmes. What have you done each time that you have relapsed?"

He groaned. "I do not know!"

I took his hand in mine and squeezed it sympathetically. He was too ill and weak to be able to think.

"When you begin to recover, I want you to remain here on this sofa. You are not to do anything that you have not been doing while you were unwell."

"For how long?"

"I am not sure. We shall call this an experiment. If you do not relapse again, then it will be a strong indication that you have somehow been poisoning yourself."

Holmes closed his eyes and nodded.

"How are you feeling?"

He moaned. "Horrible. I should like to bathe or otherwise attend to my toilet; I am terribly sticky."

I had not become ill and we had both bathed on the same evening. It could not have been our bath salts. Indeed, it could not have been anything from our bathroom, for all of our toiletries are shared.

"I am hot."

I nodded and gently cooled my companion's brow. "You shall be all right Holmes," I promised. "If you have ceased to feel cold, your fever has peaked; you should begin to improve soon."

I was right. Within an hour the fever started to diminish and the vomiting gradually cease.

"I should like to wash myself and change my clothes," my friend reminded me. "Would you please allow me to do so?"

I shook my head. "I want you to remain here."

Holmes continued to drink only water, which I ordered our housekeeper to boil first to ensure that there were no impurities in it (as is my habit when I attend to the ill), and eat only dry toast that night and the following day. He did not again relapse.

"It would seem that we have two possibilities Watson," he remarked. "Either the illness has finally run its course or you are correct and I have somehow been poisoned. Repeatedly."

I knew that the thought of his unwittingly poisoning himself disturbed him greatly, for it was the same with me. Holmes is terribly cautious and so the poisoner would have had to have been clever indeed.

"It is not my tobacco; you have not permitted me to smoke it. Might I have some now?"

I agreed and presented him with his clay pipe and enough tobacco for one smoke.

"I am to be rationed Doctor?" he enquired of me with a smirk.

"You have been terribly ill old fellow," I reminded him, "and it may not be due to poison. I hardly want to cause you to relapse again."

Holmes' condition continued to improve but he also continued to complain that he was sticky and wished to attend his toilet. I eventually agreed to run him a bath as I knew that to be safe.

My friend exited our bathroom wrapped snugly in towels and took to his chair beside the fireplace, having both bathed and brushed his teeth. He announced that he felt much improved.

"I am glad," I told him with a smile.

He returned my smile fleetingly and then rubbed at his forehead. "How could I be poisoned in my own house?"

"Have you received any gifts lately?"

He shook his head. "Indeed not. You know that I am extraordinarily careful in regard to gifts in any case."

He was indeed right and I said as much. "Then what do you have that was new when you first became unwell?"

He closed his eyes and permitted his head to sink forward until his chin rested upon his chest. He remained thus for several minutes.

I allowed myself to doze. I had not slept properly since the onset of my companion's illness and I was somewhat diminished as a result.

"Soap!" my friend announced suddenly, causing me to give a start.

"What?" I asked as I attempted to wake up.

"I have a fresh bar of soap, which was new when I became unwell," he frowned and snorted dismissively. "But that cannot be it," he grumbled, impatiently drumming his fingers upon the arm of his chair. "I have used the same shop for years."

"Is it the only thing that you can think of?" I asked of him.

He nodded.

"Then should I try it on myself and see what happens?" It is, after all, precisely what he would do.

His eyes widened in alarm. "No!" he calmed himself hastily as if his outburst had not occurred. "No my dear fellow. It would be quite inconclusive, for you have scarcely left my side since the onset of my illness; if you were to become unwell it could easily be due to contagion. No, I shall have to try something else."

I watched Holmes prepare his chemistry set for an experiment. He then stood and retrieved the questionable bar of soap from his bedroom.

As time wore on, I started to doubt that my companion's illness could have been caused by the soap, for every test proved negative. Holmes started to pore over his book on poisons and requested that I speak not a word.

Eventually, my friend tossed aside his book with frustration. "It will not do Watson. If there is indeed a poison within the soap's make-up, it is untraceable. Even to me."

He instructed me to buy another bar, giving the name of his preferred brand and advising me of where it should be purchased from.

Holmes took the new bar of soap from me and I watched as he first took a sample from that and then yet another sample from the first bar.

I did not mean to fall asleep, but I was suddenly jerked into wakefulness by a "Ha ha!" from my companion.

"This is indeed the means by which I was poisoned!" Holmes cried with excitement as he gestured to the soap. "I know not what the substance is, but there is an extra ingredient in the bar that I have been using. Hum! Very clever."

"Thank God!" I remarked emphatically. "I am only glad that you are all right and that we know what was wrong Holmes."

He agreed quietly. Then he very carefully destroyed the bar of soap that had made such an impact upon his health.


	7. Prying

_**The following story is with thanks to Lilly McMissile, who provided me with this prompt: "**_**Watson decides to probe into Holmes' past, hopefully without being pummeled to death.**_**"**_

_**Word Count: 677 words.**_

Due to my old wounds, I had spent an uncomfortable night in my bed, trying in vain to sleep and failing miserably to do so until the early hours of the morning. I eventually awoke, feeling exhausted and irritable, at just after ten AM and hastily dressed before descending the stairs to enter the sitting room. I found it deserted, with the cold remains of the breakfast of my companion, Sherlock Holmes, as the only immediate indication that he had risen before me.

As I limped toward my chair beside the hearth I noticed a jumble of papers upon the sofa and I picked one up and glanced over it. The paper proved to be a document written in the familiar scrawl of my friend and, though I did not mean to pry, I started to read. It was part of an account from one of his earlier cases; one that he had faced alone, as it was long before my time. Having read that through I turned my efforts to finding the page corresponding with it; it was then that I discovered something that I was particularly interested in. I had stumbled upon a section of what my friend referred to as the 'Singular Affair of the Aluminium Crutch'; a tale which he had alluded to but never divulged to me. I attempted to find the rest of it, sorting the other documents as I did so.

"Watson!"

I jerked awake suddenly at the angry bellow of my companion. I had fallen asleep with one of Holmes' papers still clasped in my hands.

"What the deuce do you think you are doing?" he demanded in a fit of temper. "If I wished for you to probe into my affairs I would have told you as much!"

I relinquished the document and stood slowly. "I am sorry Holmes," I began as I took to my armchair. The fire had gone out while I slept and I was cold, the temperature of the room causing my wounds to pain me all the more.

"And what is the good of that?" he demanded of me bitterly as he watched me poke the fire back into life. "Really Watson! You disappoint me. I had expected far better of you."

I was deeply hurt by his words and could not understand his reaction. Granted, I had read some of his documents without his permission, but they had been left strewn all over our sitting room.

"You have included me in your cases Holmes; you know that you can rely upon my discretion."

"Pah!" he snorted and threw himself into his chair. "You call prying into my past being discreet, do you? You truly have some rather funny ideas!"

"I did not mean to pry old fellow," I assured him. "At first, I did not quite know what I was reading..."

He glared at me. "And when you did know you continued to read anyway."

I ran a hand over my face wearily. "For the most part, I only read the titles or dates so that I could put your papers into some sort of order. I must admit though, that I could not resist reading about the 'Singular Affair of the Aluminium Crutch'..."

"Had I wanted you to read it I should have voiced my permission."

"Yes; you have made that quite clear Holmes," said I.

He snorted again, took up the papers and tossed them somewhat haphazardly into the box that he had clearly left discarded under the sofa. With another glare, he locked his box and took it back through to his bedroom. I heard him set it down with a bang.

"There," Holmes snapped as he returned and began to load a pipe. He threw himself back into his chair and smoked without another word.

He refused to speak to me for the remainder of the day. I have no idea at all why my actions should have vexed him so, but I shall be sure to leave anything of his exactly as it is in the future.


	8. Rural Train Station

_**The following is just a scene that I pictured when I was (supposedly) on my way home by train. I am sure that the robust Victorian steam trains would never have been delayed by leaves on the line though!**_

_**Word count: 420.**_

* * *

"That case," my companion complained to me with a slight shiver as we sat on a bench on the station platform together, "was incredibly common-place."

I sniffed and attempted to better adjust my collar against the chill drizzle and wind. "Not to the victim Holmes."

He addressed me with a lightning-quick smile but did not reply. I noted that he was shivering and paying close attention to the tracks before us.

"Are you all right old chap?"

He gave me another fleeting smile. "I shall be most glad to return to the warmth and comfort of Baker Street. A hot bath, a cup of tea and a good meal are in order."

"The hearty meal cannot come too soon," I remarked with a reproachful frown. As is the norm during a long case, my friend had refused to eat more than a mouthful of anything during our stay in the village. Not that the food was particularly appetising.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave a particularly violent shiver. "I wish this wretched station had a waiting room," I thought I heard him mutter.

I slipped an arm about him and wished that I could do more. "You would not feel the cold so keenly if you would only eat and sleep."

He addressed me with a glare. "When we get home!" he hissed. "I shall eat then."

"And sleep," I added firmly.

He nodded wearily. "For a week. Perhaps a fortnight."

I nodded and squeezed his quaking shoulder. "It will be warmer on the train. You can rest on the way."

"I feel as if we have been here an age Watson," he complained quietly. "What the deuce is keeping our train?"

I shrugged and sniffed. I was also tired and becoming chilled. "I can't imagine."

We remained on that platform for a further hour, while the drizzle turned to a steady rain. I was becoming increasingly concerned for the wellfare of my friend and colleague when we were approached by the station master, who informed us that our train had met with an accident and would not run until tomorrow at the earliest.

"Damn!" Holmes cursed bitterly as we went in search of a cab. "Another night in this ghastly village!"

I said nothing, for I too had been anticipating the comforts of home.

We returned to the inn in a miserable silence, took the rooms that we had checked out of just hours before, and retired to our beds early, each longing for Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson.


	9. In a Fog

**_A big "thank you" to my friend and Beta, who goes by the name of Ems. She and her sister have been a huge support to me and I could not turn down her SH22 prompt: "_Holmes catches Beth Lestrade by surprise on a foggy evening and soon discovers that she is a lady that can take care of herself._"_**

_**BallyK, your prompts are up next. I have had difficulty keeping them short because they are so good, so I am going to have to go back over them. But you know what I am like.**_

_**The word count for this one: 908 words.**_

* * *

I toss and turn in my bed, quite unable to sleep. Sir Evan Hargreaves has been very kind to me and the bed provided is spacious, warm and by far the most comfortable that I have ever had to sleep in, but my brain will not permit me to succumb to slumber.

To have been returned to life in a new era, with far too much to learn and acclimatise to is one thing; to have to face it alone, without dear old Watson's support is quite another. I miss him as one would miss one's right arm. I need him more than I have ever needed anyone and there is a stifling pain in my chest as if my heart has been torn from it when I think of him.

I drag myself from my bed and noiselessly leave Sir Evan's house. I have to somehow either bring my thoughts to order or else sufficiently exhaust myself so that I might be able to sleep. I muffle a quiet cough as fog assails my throat and wonder whether I should have thought to find my hat and cloak, or at the very least my shoes, as opposed to simply donning my dressing gown and slippers. I shrug my shoulders and press on, finding that I barely feel the chill in the air.

My thoughts turn to the young Scotland Yarder that is responsible for my new life in this young, revitalised body. I can scarcely believe that this is the 22nd Century, for I should be nothing but dust by now I am sure. Yet here I am, very much alive and terribly young and healthy for a Victorian gentleman that died of old age in the 20th Century. When Beth Lestrade, descendant of the Inspector Lestrade of my day, stands before me I feel a little less lost (even if it is difficult for me to keep in mind that she is also an inspector, like her ancestor, and not simply a woman with ideas above her station) for I can see the family resemblance in her and she has inherited some of "my" Lestrade's traits, such as his inability to give up.

Her robot is another matter. It may sound ridiculous, but I do not like the thing. Why Lestrade told it to read my Watson's journals I shall never understand, but she seemed not the least surprised when it apparently used those books to program itself to become (or at least try to mimic) my Watson. It is far too clumsy, emotional and obtuse to be anything like my companion of old, but still it insists on trying; even to the point of attempting to talk like him. It is painful and I am almost tempted to admit as much to that infernal Yarder.

I shiver and decide to turn back. Now that my emotions would appear to have run their course I would seem to be feeling the cold and I do not want that droid attempting to play doctor with me should I catch a chill. As I round a corner, I see a figure leaning against the house as the fog parts momentarily. I recognise her instantly and approach to rest a hand upon her shoulder.

What happens next is a blur. My wrist is grasped and then I am hurtling through the air before I am even able to give a cry of surprise. I then have a New Scotland Yard-issue boot on my stomach and a gun pointing at my head.

"Holmes!" Lestrade lowers her weapon and removes her foot from atop me. "What the zed are you doing creeping about out here in the middle of the night?"

"Couldn't sleep," I mumble as she helps me to my feet.

"You must be freezing," she remarks. "Why didn't you do what I do and have some warm milk?"

I grimace. "I have not drank warm milk since I was an infant."

"It's a lot healthier than going out wandering in your zedding sleepwear Sherlock."

"You are not my nanny Lestrade."

She folds her arms and glares at me. "I know that. Thank zed!"

Zed this and zed that! It has not taken me long to realise that 'zed' is the most commonly used swearword of this era. I am not quite sure what it means, aside from the 26th letter of the alphabet, and I am not at all sure that I wish to know either. I wonder whether I should threaten to wash this woman's mouth out with soap. Hum! In light of her self-defence techniques, perhaps not.

"What were you doing out there anyway?" I demand of the Yarder with annoyance as she escorts me back inside.

"I heard the front door close," she responds with a smirk. "I hadn't turned in, I was drinking a coffee in the kitchen, so I thought I'd check for intruders. I couldn't see anything wrong so I came on out here."

"Oh."

I am taken through to the kitchen, where the Yarder makes me a rather milky cup of tea, and we sit together in a comfortable silence. I might find the woman somewhat irksome, but at least I know that she knows how to defend herself now. Ugh! What a pity that she does not also know how to make an adequate cup of tea.


	10. Not a Morgue

_**A big thank you to Echoes In The Darkness, who provided me with the prompt: "john gets mad at sherlock because theres a head in the fridge and then finds the humourus side". I know that it should have been written in the **_**Sherlock_ universe, but I like to add my own twist where and as I can. As a result, I have decided to see how the above prompt might unfold in the book-verse. Extra thanks go to the usual suspects for their services as sounding boards and betas. Where would I be without my friends BallyK and Ems?_**

_**Word count: 404 words.**_

* * *

A crash from the larder. A scream. The two sounds almost reaching the ears of the detective and doctor at the same instant, making it almost impossible to discern which started or ended first.

Holmes did not even twitch. He was suffering a black mood and was sprawled lifelessly upon the sofa.

Watson, on the other hand, was on his feet in an instant. He tore downstairs to see what the matter was, bringing with him his loaded revolver. The sound of his gentle, placating tones, along with the sound of one woman's yells and the cries of another's anguish, could be heard through the sitting room door, which had been left ajar in his haste.

Holmes gave a slight shiver in response to the resulting draught but gave no further indication that he had noticed anything amiss.

The slow footsteps of the doctor sounded upon the stairs. The door opened slowly.

"There is a head. In the larder."

The detective's eyes opened slowly and he met the stern, angry gaze of his companion. "Yes indeed. I put it there."

Watson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The larder is a place for keeping food fresh Holmes. It should be kept free of contaminants. It is not a morgue Holmes!"

"Really Watson, I do believe that I should know the difference," said he with a slight smile. "Were that not the case, I should not have washed the head so carefully."

"But Holmes-!"

He gave a sigh and stretched. "Did you examine the head in question?"

The doctor admitted that he had been rather preoccupied with placating the angry Mrs. Hudson and attempting to soothe the distraught servant that had made the discovery.

The detective smiled. "Then go and do so. You shall find that no harm has been done to our housekeeper's larder."

With a resigned sigh, Watson again left the room and descended the stairs. He was gone for some time.

"It is wax," he announced when he did return.

His companion gave another little smile and turned his gaze upon him. "Of course it is wax! Why else would I have put it there? It was becoming a little soft in my bedroom and, as the larder is cooler, I thought it wise to leave it there."

Watson resumed his chair and started to laugh helplessly.

Holmes could not help but join him.


	11. Tell Me Why

_**BallyK's latest prompt for me is:**_** "I would like to see your version of Holmes betting Watson that he couldn't lose his temper for like, a whole month. You don't have to write it if it's too hard, but if you wanted to you could get W to also bet H that he couldn't be nice to people as long as W keeps his temper. You could see who breaks first."**

_**All that I can say is that I tried.**_

_**Word count: 558**_

* * *

"Holmes, why?" the doctor asked tiredly. "Why must you say such things?"

"Really Watson! Deduce it; I do nothing without reason."

"I really cannot tell Holmes. Perhaps you are mad; you must be, I fear, or why else would you hurt those that care about you and push them aside?"

The detective snorted. "Mad? What nonsense!"

His companion stood slowly and limped toward the door. "Well, it matters not; I have had quite enough. Good day."

"What? But where are you going?"

"I care not Holmes; anywhere would be better than here!"

In an instant he was on his feet. "Watson! My dear fellow, sit," with these words he hastened to his friend's side and rested a hand upon his shoulder. "What am I to do with you? You really must learn to control that temper of yours."

"I usually do very well when I am not so sorely tried by men who pretend to be friends of mine!" snapped the doctor as he brushed him off.

"Do sit down!" Holmes insisted as he thrust an arm about his companion and all but dragged him back to his chair before depositing him into it. "That's better; thank you. Watson, I would be willing to bet that you could not keep your temper for one month!"

His friend raised his eyebrows at this. "Now you are being quite ridiculous! We both know that I usually can."

"But not so much when your old wound is hurting you," Holmes noted.

"What?" the doctor demanded somewhat brusquely.

"You are limping, my dear fellow."

Watson waved him away.

"Perhaps you would feel better for some tea?" the detective enquired in a solicitous tone.

He snorted quietly. "I would feel better if you would not say such hurtful things about my poor scribbles! How can they possibly insult you?"

"Pooh! You know that I did not mean it!"

Watson ran a hand over his face. "You mean every horrid word Holmes; you said as much yourself."

There was a groan from the detective. "I said that there was a reason, not that I meant it. Come now, surely you know that..."

"That you are incapable of a single kind word when you are between cases?"

"Well, I would hardly say that."

"I would," the doctor informed him bluntly. "I would even go so far as to make a wager of my own with you - that you could not refrain from snide and cutting remarks for one single week while you had no work."

Holmes leapt to his feet and began to pace furiously as he considered the wager. He eventually stopped abruptly before Watson, spinning on the spot to meet his gaze and wagging a dramatic finger. "I can! I shall! I accept your bet. One week, you say? Pooh! It is easy!"

"Without the aid of cocaine," Watson added with a knowing smile.

His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, but he nodded. He was not about to lose face. "Of course. Naturally. It is easy, as I said; why would I need cocaine?" he resumed his seat. "How much are we betting?"

"Ten pounds."

His eyes widened for a brief moment. "Very well," he acquiesced with a quick smile. "Though I do so hate to take your money my dear fellow."

Watson only laughed and settled into his chair to read.


	12. The Bet is On

_**As requested, here is the sequel. I am not as happy with it as I could be, but I found this one very difficult, as both my Beta and my "sounding board" will probably be happy to tell you (many thanks to you both, by the way).**_

_**I have written this piece from Holmes' point of view and in the style that I use when writing my SH22 pieces because I could find no other way that worked so well. I hope that you can forgive the alternative style and that you find it enjoyable.**_

_**Word count: 982**_

* * *

I am bone weary; stagnation exhausts me much more than even the most trying of cases ever could. I have been pacing all night and the look that I received from my companion this morning informs me that it did not go unnoticed.

But this is maddening; infuriating! The morning correspondence brought nothing for me but a request to locate a lost cat and the afternoon brought only a reminder that our rent has gone up. Where are the criminals? Surely the rain would offer an excellent cover for their operations; it is tipping down out there, throwing up a mist with the force at which it hits the road, pavements and rooftops. If I were a criminal, I would consider the conditions to be perfect.

At least Watson would appear to be feeling better today, for he has not even treated me to a dose of his sarcasm. I, on the other hand, am boiling with frustration. I need a case! How can my friend just sit there reading so contentedly? How does he not die of boredom? I wonder if he would notice if I were to just...

"Holmes! Put your Morocco case down this instant unless you wish to part with ten pounds."

Damn! How did he do that? He is not even looking at me!

"Would you please stop pacing? You are causing a draught."

Patience Holmes. Patience old chap. Ah, but that calm tone is so grating! Say nothing; you can win if you just say nothing. I wonder if touching my hands to his throat in warning would lose me my bet. No, no; do not even think it! This is dear old Watson!

"Are you feeling all right? Don't shrug your shoulders. What is wrong?"

I do wish that he would not look at me like that. Go away Watson!

"Holmes? Are you listening? You are working yourself into a fever. Whatever is the matter?"

For God's sake deduce it! "Nothing. Just carry on as you are." He is still staring at me! Why can he not leave me alone? Is he truly concerned, or is he doing his utmost to win this bet by antagonising me? Surely he would not do that. That is unfair and Watson is an English gentleman; English gentlemen do not cheat. Come, come Holmes! You are being irrational.

"Why will you not speak to me?"

Must I? "I have nothing to say. I am bored, that is all."

"Hum, yes. It would not be so bad if this rain would stop; we could take a walk or something."

Ah ha! His leg is still paining him! I saw that flinch when he attempted to stretch it. What the deuce is happening to me? Am I truly glad that my friend is in pain? "Your leg is still hurting you."

"It is cold and wet out Holmes; such weather always causes my old wounds to ache."

No, I am not glad. I may not want to lose my bet, but that does not mean that I wish to see my companion in such discomfort. "Does the fire not help?"

"Not as much as I would like, no."

"Would a hot bath not be beneficial?" What have I said to cause him to slam his book down and glare at me in such a manner? Have I done something wrong?

"I am a doctor for God's sake! If there was anything that I could do, do you not think that I would do it, as opposed to sitting here and feeling sorry for myself?"

He owes me ten pounds, but I shall mention that later. I have never seen my companion fly into such a sudden fit of temper and I am not sure that I wish to antagonise him further. Ah! But this means that I have won!

"What the devil are you doing? Holmes! Put that down or God help me..."

This is not fair! I can forfeit my winnings by using my cocaine if I wish it, surely? It would be kinder than taking ten pounds from my friend; his funds are quite low enough! "I am forfeiting my winnings Watson. This way, we both lose our bet and I can have my much-needed stimulation."

"Stimulation! Holmes, we both know that that drug will destroy you if you continue to use it. It could be heart failure, it could be your brain, it could be any number of things, but it will be your end one day. Please, put that down."

Very well old fellow; there is no need to upset yourself. There we are; it is shut up and back in its place. I should like to know what I am supposed to do now though. My brain is still screaming for some form of stimulation. "Well, what do you suggest that I do Doctor? I am about to die of boredom, so I had might as well take my chances with the cocaine!"

"Now you are being over-dramatic. Why do you not play your violin? Surely that must help?"

"No, it does not. It helps me to think! What would you imagine would happen if I were to try to think when I have nothing to occupy my mind? Well?"

"Sorry Holmes. Oh, come now! Don't start pacing again."

"You would be pacing as well if you had two legs to pace with!" Oh, that was below the belt! What is wrong with me lately? "Watson! No! Sit down. I did not mean that. You know that I did not mean that. Please, please sit down. Wait here while I get my violin. Yes, yes; I know what I said."

It is the only way in which I can apologise and I do so need to apologise! I should not have said a word; I knew that I should not have said a word.


End file.
